Alfred Jones and the Philosopher's Stone
by AFleetingPhantom
Summary: Alfred Jones thinks he is an ordinary boy. He lives with Uncle Winter, Aunt Anya and cousin Ivan, who make him sleep in a cupboard under the stairs. Then Alfred starts receiving mysterious letters and his life is changed forever. He is whisked away by a giant of a man and enrolled in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The reason: Alfred F. Jones is a wizard!
1. The Boy Who Lived

**A/N: Hello all, firstly I would like to say that I wasn't really sure about submitting this story, and if you have **_**anything **_**to say about it then I will listen. This, as I will state again in the disclaimer, is a non-profit fanfiction for the enjoyment of my fellow fans. And, on that note, enjoy!**

_**Disclaimer: I, AFleetingPhantom, do not own Harry Potter or Hetalia: Axis Powers/World Series. This is a non-profit Fanfiction for the enjoyment of my fellow Hetalians and Potterheads. If I am indeed breaking any copyright laws, then I shall immediately take down this story.**_

Mr and Mrs Braginski, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.

Mr Braginski was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large moustache. Mrs Braginski was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbours. The Braginskis had a small son named Ivan and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.

The Braginskis had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Joneses. Mrs Jones was Mrs Braginski's sister, but they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Mrs Braginski pretended that she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unBraginskish as it was possible to be. The Braginskis shuddered to think what the neighbours would say if the Joneses arrived in the street. The Braginskis knew that the Joneses had a small son, too, but they had never seen him. This boy was another good reason for keeping the Joneses away; they didn't want Ivan mixing with a child like that.

When Mr and Mrs Braginski woke up on the dull, grey Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr Braginski hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work and Mrs Braginski gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Ivan into his high chair. None of them noticed a large tawny owl flutter past the window. At half past eight, Mr Braginski picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs Braginski on the cheek and tried to kiss Ivan goodbye but missed, because Ivan was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls. "Little tyke," chortled Mr Braginski as he left the house. He got into his car and backed out of number four's drive.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar – a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr Braginski didn't realise what he had seen – then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr Braginski blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr Braginski drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said _Privet Drive_ – no, _looking_ at the sign; cats couldn't read maps _or _signs. Mr Braginski gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove towards town he thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.

But on the edge of town, drills were driven out from his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mr Braginski couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes – the get-ups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of those weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr Braginski was enraged to see that a couple of them weren't young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr Braginski that this was probably just some silly stunt – these people were obviously collecting for something … yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on, and a few minutes later, Mr Braginski arrived in the Grunnings car park, his mind back on drills.

Mr Braginski always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he might have found it harder to concentrate on drills that morning. _He _didn't see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at night-time. Mr Braginski, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunch-time, when he thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the baker's opposite.

He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy. This lot were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.

"The Joneses, that's right, that's what I heard –"

"– Yes, their son, Alfred –"

Mr Braginski stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.

He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone and had almost finished dialling his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his moustache, thinking … no, he was being stupid. Jones wasn't such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Jones who had a son called Alfred. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure his nephew _was _called Alfred. He'd never even seen the boy. It might have been Alex. Or Allen. There was no point in worrying Mrs Braginski, she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn't blame her –if _he'd _had a sister like that … but all the same, those people in cloaks …

He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon, an when he left the building at five o'clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.

"Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr Braginski realised that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passers-by stare: "Don't by sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!"

And the old man hugged Mr Braginski around the middle and walked off.

Mr Braginski stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination.

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw – and it didn't improve his mood – was the tabby cat he'd spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around it's eyes.

"Shoo!" said Mr Braginski loudly.

The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behaviour, Mr Braginski wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.

Mrs Braginski had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs Next Door's problems and how Ivan had learnt a new word ("Shan't!"). Mr Braginski tried to act normally. When Ivan had been put to bed, he went into the living-room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:

"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls usually hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern." The news reader allowed himself a grin. "Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?"

"Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early – it's not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight."

Mr Braginski sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Jones...

Mrs Braginski came into the living-room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. "Er – Anya, dear – you haven't heard anything from your sister lately, have you?"

As he had expected, Mrs Braginski looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn't have a sister.

"No," she said sharply. "Why?"

"Funny stuff on the news," Mr Braginski mumbled. "Owls … shooting stars … and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today …"

"_So?" _snapped Mrs Braginski.

"Well, I just thought … maybe … it was something to do with … you know … _her lot._"

Mrs Braginski sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr Braginski wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name 'Jones'. He decided he didn't dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could,

"Their son – he'd be about Ivan's age now, wouldn't he?"

"I suppose so," said Mrs Braginski stiffly.

"What's his name again? Alan, isn't it?"

"Alfred. Nasty, common name, if you ask me."

"Oh, yes," said Mr Braginski, his heart sinking horribly. "Yes, I quite agree."

He didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs Braginski was in the bathroom, Mr Braginski crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it was waiting for something.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Jones? If it did … if it got out that they were related to a pair of – well, he didn't think he could bear it.

The Braginskis got into bed. Mrs Braginski fell asleep quickly but Mr Braginski lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Joneses _were _involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs Braginski. The Joneses knew very well what he and Anya thought about them and their kind … he couldn't see how he and Anya could get mixed up in anything that might be going on. He yawned and turned over. It couldn't affect _them _…

How very wrong he was.

Mr Braginski might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed in the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen in Privet Drive. He was tall, thin and rather old, judging by the dash of silver in his shoulder length golden hair and short beard. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak which swept to the ground and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Frederick Eberhardt.

Frederick Eberhardt didn't seem to realise that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realise he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still sating at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known."

He had found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again – the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left in the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their now, even the beady-eyed Mrs Braginski, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Eberhardt slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street towards number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor Héderváry."

He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her brown hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked.

"My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."

"You'd be stiff if you'd be sitting on a brick wall all day," said Professor Héderváry.

"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."

Professor Héderváry sniffed angrily.

"Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she said impatiently. "You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no – even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was on their news." She jerked her head back at the Braginski's dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls … shooting stars … Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent – I'll bet that was Antonio Carriedo. He never had much sense."

"You can't blame them," said Eberhardt gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."

"I know that," said Professor Héderváry irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumours."

She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Eberhardt here, as though he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on: "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really _has_ gone, Eberhardt?"

"It certainly seems so," said Eberhardt. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a sherbet lemon?"

"A _what_?"

"A sherbet lemon. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of."

"No thank you," said Professor Héderváry coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for sherbet lemons. "As I say, even if You-Know-Who _has _gone –"

"My dear professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense – for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: _Saltuaria_." Professor Héderváry flinched, but Eberhardt, who was unsticking two sherbet lemons, seemed not to notice. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who'. I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Saltuaria's name."

"I know you haven't," said Professor Héderváry, sounding half-exasperated, half-admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know – oh, all right, _Saltuaria _– was frightened of."

"You flatter me," said Eberhardt calmly. "Saltuaria had powers I will never have."

"Only because you're too – well – _noble _to use them."

"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."

Professor Héderváry shot a sharp look at Eberhardt and said, "The owls are nothing to the _rumours _that are flying around. You know what's everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"

It seemed that Professor Héderváry had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold hard wall all say, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Eberhardt with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever 'everyone' was saying, she was not going to believe it until Eberhardt told her it was true. Eberhardt, however, was now choosing another sherbet lemon and did not answer.

"What they're _saying_," she pressed on, "is that last night Saltuaria turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Joneses. The rumour is that Eeva and Berwald are – are – that they're – _dead_."

Eberhardt bowed his head. Professor Héderváry gasped.

"Eeva and Berwald … I can't believe it … I didn't want to believe it … Oh, Frederick …"

Eberhardt reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "I know … I know …" he said heavily.

Professor Héderváry's voice trembled as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Joneses' son, Alfred. But – he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Alfred Jones, Saltuaria's power somehow broke – and that's why he's gone.

Eberhardt nodded glumly.

"It's – it's _true_?" faltered Professor Héderváry. "After all he's done … all the people he's killed … he couldn't kill a little boy? It's just astounding … of all the things to stop him … but how in the name of heaven did Alfred survive?"

"We can only guess," said Eberhardt. "We may never know."

Professor Héderváry pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Eberhardt gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Eberhardt, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, "Ekk's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?"

"Yes," said Professor Héderváry. "And I don't suppose you'll tell me _why _you're here, of all places?"

"I've come to bring Alfred to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family he has left now."

"You don't mean – you _can't _mean the people that live _here_?" cried Professor Héderváry, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. "Eberhardt – you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son – I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Alfred Jones come and live here!"

"It's the best place for him," said Eberhardt firmly. "His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a letter."

"A letter?" repeated Professor Héderváry faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Eberhardt, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He'll be famous – a legend – I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Alfred Jones day in the future – there will be books written about Alfred – every child in our world will know his name!"

"Exactly," said Eberhardt, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any boy's head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won't even remember! Can't you see how much better off he'll be, growing up away from all that until he's ready to take it?"

Professor Héderváry opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed and then said, "Yes – yes, you're right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, Eberhardt?" She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Alfred underneath it.

"Ekk's bringing him."

"You think it – _wise _– to trust Ekk with something as important as this?"

"I would trust Ekk with my life," said Eberhardt.

"I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said Professor Héderváry grudgingly, "but you can't pretend he's not careless. He does tend to – what was that?"

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky – and a huge motorbike fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the motorbike was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so _terrifying _– shoulder-length white hair and menacing violet eyes marred his face, he had hands the size of dustbin lids and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.

"Ekk," said Eberhardt, sounding relieved. "At last. And where did you get that motorbike?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Eberhardt, sir," said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorbike as he spoke. "Young Alex Frix lent it me. I've got him, sir."

"No problems, were there?"

"No, sir – house was almost destroyed but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol."

Eberhardt and Professor Héderváry bent over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of golden hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning,

"Is that where -?" whispered Professor Héderváry.

"Yes," said Eberhardt. "He'll have that scar forever."

"Couldn't you do something about it, Eberhardt?"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in useful. I have one myself above my left knee which is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well – give him here, Ekk – we'd better get this over with."

Eberhardt took Alfred in his arms and turned towards the Braginskis' house.

"Could I – could I say goodbye to him, sir?" asked Ekk.

He bent his great, ghost-like head over Alfred and gave him what must have been a very slobbery, cold kiss. Then, suddenly, Ekk let out a howl like a wounded dog.

"Shhh!" hissed Professor Héderváry. "You'll wake the Muggles!"

"S-s-sorry," sobbed Ekk, taking out a large spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it – Eeva an' Berwald dead – an' poor little Alfred off ter live with Muggles –"

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Ekk, or we'll be found," Professor Héderváry whispered, patting Ekk gingerly on the arm as Eberhardt stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Alfred gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Alfred's blankets and then came back to the other two. For a full minute, the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Ekk's shoulders shook, Professor Héderváry blinked furiously and the twinkling light that usually shone from Eberhardt's eyes seemed to have gone out.

"Well," said Eberhardt finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."

"Yeah," said Ekk in a very muffled voice. "I'd best get this bike away. G'night, Professor Héderváry – Professor Eberhardt, sir."

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Ekk swung himself on to the motorbike and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor Héderváry," said Eberhardt, nodding to her. Professor Héderváry blew her nose in reply.

Eberhardt turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so the Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.

"Good luck, Alfred," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Alfred Jones rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs Braginski's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Ivan … He couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Alfred Jones – the boy who lived!"

_End of Chapter One_

**A/N: Here's the cast list for this chapter:**

**Vernon Dursley – General Winter – Winter Braginski**

**Petunia Dursley – Fem!Russia – Anya Braginski**

**Dudley Dursley – Russia – Ivan Braginski**

**Lily Potter – Fem!Finland – Eeva Jones**

**James Potter – Sweden – Berwald Jones**

**Harry Potter – America – Alfred Jones**

**Albus Dumbledore – Germania – Frederick Eberhardt**

**Minerva McGonagall – Older!Hungary – Elizabeta Héderváry**

**Dedalus Diggle – Dwarf!Spain – Antonio Carriedo**

**Rubeus Hagrid – Half Giant!2P!Russia – Dima Ekk **

**Sirius Black – Modern!England – Alex Frix **

**I can't stress enough how much I don't know what legal position this story is in, but for now please just enjoy! This was taken from the original UK edition of 'Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone' since I am, in fact, British. English, to be exact. The next chapter is 'The Vanishing Glass' so if this story still exists, look forward to it!**


	2. Author's Note

**Hello all.**

**I'm sorry if you all thought that this would be an update. I've had a terrible cold all week and I wasn't allowed on my laptop, which meant I couldn't even write the next stories. Unfortunately, I can't write for hats when I'm sick so I can't update until I'm feeling better. Whilst this does count for "OTP 30 Day December Prompts", it doesn't count for "Alfred Jones and the Philosopher's Stone". It takes a while to type up chapters for Alfred Jones, and I've had a couple setbacks with trips and illness, so I deeply apologise. Neither of my stories are on a Hiatus or given up on, it's just taking me a while to update. I hope you can understand.**

**AFleetingPhantom**


	3. The Vanishing Glass

**A/N: Erm…surprise? Yeah, guess who updated…this story is **_**definitely **_**going to be updated rather sporadically, so please forgive me, the HP chapters are long and the words are tiny…there are nine pages for The Vanishing Glass, and around 3000 words…that is a **_**lot **_**of words to type up and I'm just making excuses I'm just a big fail procrastinator wa-hooey! *celebratory rave music* Anyroad, it's here now~**

_**Disclaimer: I, AFleetingPhantom, do not own Harry Potter or Hetalia: Axis Powers/World Series/The Beautiful World. This is a non-profit Fanfiction for the enjoyment of my fellow Hetalians and Potterheads. If I am indeed breaking any copyright laws, then I shall immediately take down this story.**_

**Epic Hero Laugh:**** Hi Rika~ I left it hanging for a while, eh? -.-() Sorry! Also, I know I said I would definitely be posting yesterday but parents happened ;_;, so just a couple hours of schedule~**

**DivineOokami:**** Lemme just check my massive cast list…N. Italy is in it, and he's a boy…with a pretty big part too. Um…Germany as well, with another pretty big part…I haven't put all the parts up yet, so I can cast Japan later…**

**kuroiyou63:**** Sorry…not very quick…but I'm all better now~**

Nearly ten years had passed since the Braginskis had woken up to find their nephew on the front step, but Privet Drive had hardly changed at all. The sun rose on the same tidy front gardens and lit up the brass number four on the Braginskis' front door; it crept into the living-room, which was almost exactly the same as it had been on the night when Mr Braginski had watched the fateful report about the owls. Only the photographs on the mantelpiece really showed how much time had passed. Ten years ago, there had been lots of pictures of what looked like a large pink beach ball wearing different-coloured bobble hats – but Ivan Braginski was no longer a baby, and now the photographs showed a large, platinum-blond boy riding his first bicycle, on a roundabout at the fair, playing a computer game with his father, being hugged and kissed by his mother. The room held no sign at all that another boy lived in the house, too.

Yet Alfred Jones was still there, asleep at the moment, but not for long. His Aunt Anya was awake and it was her shrill voice which made the first noise of the day.

"Up! Get up! Now!"

Alfred woke with a start. His aunt rapped on the door again.

"Up!" she screeched. Alfred heard her walking towards the kitchen and then the sound of the frying pan being put on the cooker. He rolled onto his back and tried to remember the dream he had been having. It had been a good one. There had been a flying motorbike in it. He had a funny feeling he'd had the same dream before.

His aunt was back outside the door.

"Are you up yet?" she demanded.

"Nearly," said Alfred.

"Well, get a move on, I want you to look after the bacon, And don't you dare let it burn, I want everything perfect on Ivy's birthday."

Alfred groaned.

"What did you say?" his aunt snapped through the door.

"Nothing, nothing …"

Ivan's birthday – how could he have forgotten? Alfred got slowly out of bed and started looking for socks. He found a pair under his bed and, after pulling a spider off one of them, put them on. Alfred was used to spiders, because the cupboard under the stairs was full of them, and that was where he slept.

When he was dressed he went down the hall into the kitchen. The table was almost hidden beneath all Ivan's birthday presents. It looked as though Ivan had got the new computer he wanted, not to mention the second television and racing bike. Exactly why Ivan wanted a racing bike was a mystery to Alfred, as Ivan was very fat and hated exercise – unless of course it involved punching somebody. Ivan's favourite punching bag was Alfred, but he couldn't often catch him. Alfred didn't look it, but he was very fast.

Perhaps it had something to do with living in a dark cupboard, but Alfred had always been short and skinny for his age. He looked even smaller and skinnier than he really was because all he had to wear were old clothes of Ivan's and Ivan was about four times bigger than he was. Alfred had a thin face, knobbly knees, blond hair with a mysterious strand that always stood up at the front and sky-blue eyes. He wore square glasses held together with a lot of Sellotape because of all the times Ivan had punched him on the nose. The only thing Alfred liked about his own appearance was a very thin scar on his forehead which was shaped like a bolt of lightning, He had had it as long as he could remember and the first question he could ever remember asking his Aunt Anya was how he had got it.

"In the car crash when your parents died," she had said. "And don't ask questions."

_Don't ask questions _– that was the first rule for a quiet life with the Braginskis.

Uncle Winter entered the kitchen as Alfred was turning over the bacon.

"Comb your hair!" he barked, by way of a morning greeting.

About once a week, Uncle Winter looked over the top of his newspaper and shouted that Alfred needed a haircut. Alfred must have had more haircuts than the rest of the boys in his class put together, but it made no difference, his hair simply grew that way – all over the place.

Alfred was frying eggs by the time Ivan arrived in the kitchen with his mother. Ivan looked a lot like Uncle Winter with Aunt Anya's colours. He had a large, pink face, not much neck, large, watery blue eyes and thick, platinum-blond hair that lay smoothly on is thick, fat head. Aunt Anya often said that Ivan looked like a baby angel – Alfred often said that Ivan looked like a pig in a wig.

Alfred put the plates of egg and bacon on the table, which was difficult as there wasn't much room. Ivan, meanwhile, was counting his presents. His face fell.

"Thirty-six," he said, looking up at his mother and father. "That's two less than last year."

"Darling, you haven't counted Aunt Winfred's present, see, it's here under this big one from Mummy and Daddy."

"All right, thirty-seven then," said Ivan, going red in the face. Alfred, who could see a huge Ivan tantrum coming on, began wolfing down his bacon as fast as possible in case Ivan turned the table over.

Aunt Anya obviously scented danger too, because she said quickly, "And we'll buy you another _two _presents while we're out today. How's that, popkin? _Two _more presents. Is that all right?"

Ivan thought for a moment. It looked like hard work. Finally he said slowly, "So I'll have thirty … thirty …"

"Thirty-nine, sweetums," said Aunt Anya.

"Oh." Ivan sat down heavily and grabbed the nearest parcel. "All right then."

Uncle Winter chuckled.

"Little tyke wants his money's worth, just like his father. Atta boy, Ivan!" He ruffled Ivan's hair.

At that moment the telephone rang and Aunt Anya went to answer it while Alfred and Uncle Winter watched Ivan unwrap the racing bike, a cine-camera, a remote-control aeroplane, sixteen new computer games and a video recorder. He was ripping the paper off a gold wristwatch when Aunt Anya came back from the telephone, looking both angry and worried.

"Bad news, Winter," she said. "Mrs Alexopoulos has broken her leg. She can't take him." She jerked her head in Alfred's direction.

Ivan's mouth fell open in horror but Alfred's heart gave a leap. Every year on Ivan's birthday his parents took him and a friend out for the day, to adventure parks, hamburger bars or the cinema. Every year, Alfred was left behind with Mrs Alexopoulos, a mad old lady who lived two streets away. Alfred hated it there. The old house smelled of cabbage and Mrs Alexopoulos made him look at photographs of all the cats she'd ever owned.

"Now what?" said Aunt Anya, looking furiously at Alfred as though he'd planned this. Alfred knew he ought to feel bad that Mrs Alexopoulos had broken her leg, but it wasn't easy when he reminded himself it would be a whole year before he had to look at Tibbles, Snowy, Mr Paws and Tufty again.

"We could phone Winfred," Uncle Winter suggested.

"Don't be silly, Winter, she hates the boy."

The Braginskis often spoke about Alfred like this, as though he wasn't there – or rather, as though he was something very nasty that couldn't understand them, like a slug.

"What about what's-her-name, your friend – Michelle?"

"On holiday in Majorca," snapped Aunt Anya.

"You could just leave me here," Alfred put in hopefully (he'd be able to watch what he wanted on television for a change and maybe even have a go on Ivan's computer)

Aunt Anya looked as though she'd just swallowed a lemon.

"And come back and find the house in ruins?" she snarled.

"I won't blow up the house," said Alfred, but they weren't listening.

"I suppose we could take him to the zoo," said Aunt Anya slowly, "…and leave him in the car…"

"That car's new, he's not sitting in it alone…"

Ivan began to cry loudly. In fact, he wasn't really crying, it had been years since he'd really cried, but he knew that if he screwed up his face and wailed, his mother would give him anything he wanted.

"Ivykins, don't cry, Mummy won't let him spoil your special day!" she cried, flinging her arms around him.

"I…don't…want…him…t-t-to come!" Ivan yelled between huge pretend sobs "He always sp-spoils everything!" He shot Alfred a nasty grin through the gap in his mother's arms.

Just then, the doorbell rang – "Oh, Good Lord, they're here!" said Aunt Anya frantically – and a moment later, Ivan's best friend, Eduard von Bock, walked in with his mother. Eduard was a scrawny boy with a face like a mole. He was usually the one who held people's arms behind their backs while Ivan hit them. Ivan stopped pretending to cry at once.

Half an hour later, Alfred, who couldn't believe his luck, was sitting in the back of the Braginski's car with Eduard and Ivan, on the way to the zoo for the first time in his life. His aunt and uncle hadn't been able to think of anything else to do with him, but before they'd left, Uncle Winter had taken Alfred aside.

"I'm warning you," he had said, putting his large purple face right up close to Alfred's, "I'm warning you now, boy – any funny business, anything at all – and you'll be in that cupboard from now until Christmas."

"I'm not going to do anything," said Alfred, "honestly…"

But Uncle Winter didn't believe him. No one ever did.

The problem was, strange things often happened around Alfred and it was just no good telling the Braginksis he didn't make them happen.

Once, Aunt Anya, tired of Alfred coming back from the barber's looking as though he hadn't been at all, had taken a pair of scissors and cut his hair so short he was almost bald except for his fringe, which she left to 'hide that horrible scar'. Ivan had laughed himself silly at Alfred, who spent a sleepless night imagining school the next day, where he was already laughed at for his baggy clothes and Sellotaped glasses. Next morning, however, he had got up to find his hair exactly as it had been before Aunt Anya had sheared it off. He had been given a week in his cupboard for this, even though he had tried to explain that he _couldn't _explain how it had grown back so quickly.

Another time, Aunt Anya had been trying to force him into a revolting old jumper of Ivan's (brown with orange bobbles). The harder she tried to pull it over his head, the smaller it seemed to become, until finally it might have fitted a glove puppet, but certainly wouldn't fit Alfred. Aunt Anya had decided it must have shrunk in the wash and, to his great relief, Alfred wasn't punished.

On the other hand, he'd gotten into terrible trouble for being found on the roof of the school kitchens. Ivan's gang had been chasing him as usual when, as much to Alfred's surprise as anyone else's, there he was sitting on the chimney. The Braginskis had received a very angry letter from Alfred's headmistress telling them Alfred had been climbing school buildings. But all he'd tried to do (as he shouted at Uncle Winter through the locked door of his cupboard) was jump behind the big bins outside the kitchen doors. Alfred supposed that the wind must have caught him in mid-jump.

But today, nothing was going to go wrong. It was even worth being with Ivan and Eduard to be spending the day somewhere that wasn't school, his cupboard or Mrs Alexopoulos' cabbage-smelling living-room.

While he drove, Uncle Winter complained to Aunt Anya. He liked to complain about things: people at work, Alfred, the council, Alfred, the bank and Alfred were just a few of his favourite subjects. This morning, it was motorbikes.

"…roaring along like maniacs, the young hoodlums," he said as a motorbike overtook them.

"I had a dream about a motorbike," said Alfred, remembering suddenly, "It was flying."

Uncle Winter nearly crashed into the car in front. He turned right around in his seat and yelled at Alfred, his face like a gigantic beetroot with a moustache, "MOTORBIKES DON'T FLY!"

Ivan and Eduard sniggered.

"I know they don't," said Alfred. "It was only a dream."

But he wished he hadn't said anything. If there was one thing the Braginskis hated even more than his asking questions, it was his talking about anything that acted in a way it shouldn't, no matter if it was in a dream or even a cartoon – they seemed to think he might get dangerous ideas.

It was a very sunny Saturday and the zoo was crowded with families. The Braginskis bought Ivan and Eduard large chocolate ice-creams at the entrance and then, because the smiling lady in the van had asked Alfred what he wanted before they could hurry him away, they bought him a cheap lemon ice lolly. It wasn't bad either, Alfred thought, licking it as they watched a gorilla scratching its head and looking remarkably like Ivan, except that it wasn't blond.

Alfred had the best morning he'd had in a long time. He was careful to walk a little way apart from the Braginskis so that Ivan and Eduard, who were starting to get bored with the animals by lunch-time, wouldn't fall back on their favourite hobby of hitting him. They ate in the zoo restaurant and when Ivan had a tantrum because his knickerbocker glory wasn't big enough, Uncle Winter bought him another one and Alfred was allowed to finish the first.

Alfred felt, afterwards, that he should have known it was all too good to last.

After lunch they went to the reptile house. It was cool and dark in here, with lit windows all along the walls. Behind the glass, all sorts of lizards and snakes were crawling and slithering over bits if wood and stone. Ivan and Eduard wanted to see huge, poisonous cobras and thick, man-crushing pythons. Ivan quickly found the largest snake in the place. It could have wrapped its body twice around Uncle Winter's car and crushed it into a dustbin – but at the moment it didn't look in the mood. In fact, it was fast asleep.

Ivan stood with his nose pressed against the glass, staring at the glistening brown coils.

"Make it move," he whined at his father.

Uncle Winter tapped on the glass, but the snake didn't budge.

"Do it again," Ivan ordered.

Uncle Winter rapped on the glass smartly with his knuckles, but the snake just snoozed on.

"This is boring," Ivan moaned.

He shuffled away.

Alfred moved in front of the tank and looked intently at the snake. He wouldn't have been surprised if it had died of boredom itself – no company except stupid people drumming their fingers on the glass trying to disturb it all day long. It was worse than having a cupboard as a bedroom, where the only visitor was Aunt Anya hammering on the door to wake you up – at least he got to visit the rest of the house.

The snake suddenly opened its beady eyes. Slowly, very slowly, it raised its head until its eyes were on a level with Alfred's.

_It winked._

Alfred stared. Then he looked quickly around to if anyone was watching. They weren't. He looked back at the snake and winked, too.

The snake jerked its head towards Uncle Winter and Ivan, then raised its eyes to the ceiling. It gave Alfred a look that said quite plainly: _"I get that all the time."_

"I know," murmured Alfred through the glass, though he wasn't sure the snake could hear him. "It must be really annoying."

The snake nodded vigorously.

"Where do you come from, anyway?" Alfred asked.

The snake jabbed its tail at a little sign next to the glass. Alfred peered at it.

_Boa Constrictor, Brazil_

"Was it nice there?"

The boa constrictor jabbed its tail at the sign again and Alfred read on:

_This specimen was bred in the zoo._

"Oh, I see – so you've never been to Brazil?"

As the snake shook its head, a deafening shout behind Alfred made both of them jump.

"IVAN! MR BRAGINSKI! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON'T _BELIEVE _WHAT IT'S DOING!"

Ivan came waddling towards them as fast as he could.

"Out of the way, you," he said, punching Alfred in the ribs. Caught by surprise, Alfred fell hard on the concrete floor. What came next happened so fast no one saw how it happened – one second, Eduard and Ivan were leaning right up close to the glass, the next, they had leapt back with howls of horror.

Alfred sat up and gasped; the glass front of the boa constrictor's tank had vanished. The great snake was uncoiling itself rapidly, slithering out onto the floor – people throughout the reptile house screamed and starting running for the exits.

As the snake slid swiftly past him, Alfred could have sworn a low, hissing voice said, "Brazil, here I come…Thanksss, amigo."

The keeper of the reptile house was in shock.

"But the glass," he kept saying, "where did the glass go?"

The zoo director himself made Aunt Anya a cup of strong sweet tea while he apologised over and over again. Eduard and Ivan could only gibber. As far as Alfred had seen, the snake hadn't done anything except snap playfully at their heels as it passed, but by the time they were all back in Uncle Winter's car, Ivan was telling them how it had nearly bitten off his leg, while Eduard was swearing it had tried to squeeze him to death. But worst of all, for Alfred at least, was Eduard calming down enough to say,

"Alfred was talking to it, weren't you, Alfred?"

Uncle Winter waited until Eduard was safely out of the house before starting on Alfred. He was so angry he could hardly speak. He managed to say, "Go – cupboard – stay – no meals," before he collapsed into a chair and Aunt Anya had to run and get him a large Vodka.

In his cupboard, Alfred drew his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on them and sighing quietly – if his aunt or uncle heard him _sighing_ he'd surely be dead. He wished he owned a watch, or perhaps a clock, so he knew when the time was. In his cupboard, time seemed to pass slower than it did out in the house, or at school. Besides, he didn't know when his relatives would go to sleep and he could sneak out to the kitchen for some food, as was the norm when in such situations as being locked in his cupboard.

Alfred had been with the Braginskis for the better part of ten years now. Ten years spent cleaning up after one of the laziest families on Earth. At school he had no friends. After all, Ivan's gang – 'The Soviets' – hated him. And no one messed with Ivan's gang.

**In case you didn't notice, last two paragraphs were written by me to shorten the chapter~ Merry Christmas, Happy Easter, perhaps Happy Birthday, Happy St. David's Day (Wales), Happy St. Patrick's Day (Ireland) and Happy Early St. George's Day! (England, my country~) See ya'll~**

**Aunt Marge – Fem!General Winter – Winfred Braginski **

**Mrs Figg – Older!Fem!Greece – Aglaia Alexopoulos **

**Yvonne – Seychelles - Michelle**

**Piers Polkiss – Estonia – Eduard von Bock**


	4. Another Setback! :(

Hi! Sorry that this isn't an update, but I recently got a new laptop, so I transferred my files over to it...and forgot my Alfred Jones folder. This means that now I have to re-type Chapter Three, which I guess is OK, but that means this will all be further delayed. But that's not the worst part, I had my cast list in that folder and now I've completely lost it. I took a long time researching names from the countries and thinking hard about who should be in the parts. Some of them were a little funny, such as 2P!Australia being Voldemort, but now I won't be able to continue until I have the cast list again. But at least I've finally moved up from Windows XP to Windows 7, though mainly because my Dad got Windows 8. Anyroad, unfortunately Alfred Jones will be on a small hiatus until I can get things going again. Thank you for your cooperation.


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